Is There Sex in Paris?

The eternal hunt...

Walking down the Rue Odeon in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, one wonders: is there Sex in Paris? Of course, there is sex everywhere, but the tranquility of the street in this old bohemian locus makes one wonder whether the blessed illusion of unbridled erotic freedom is genuine. Little stirs before 11:00 am; all life remains interiorized, even in one the of the world’s largest cities. And perhaps that’s where sex lies, mon frère, locked in apartments, sheltered in the mind, luxuriating like a crazed floribunda.

Out of the silence, carnal opportunity inevitably springs to life. I spend summers in Paris, with some gratifying adventures, and some dry spells, like all of us. But there is something about the inevitability, the surprise of an encounter when it arrives.

I was drinking a glass of Glenmorangie alone at the Le Rostand, near my apartment when I ran into an old editor friend from New York. Immediately, something about the atmosphere, the aberrant cool of the evening, the yellow walls, created an unmistakable charge. We were drawn into its vortex.

I will elide the details. Except that I recall lying on my bed, gazing at the ceiling, a glove clenched between my teeth, feeling the unmistakable journey of a tongue from my ankle to my thigh and then to more sensitive and illicit regions, where it performed its captivating act for what seemed like hours. It was only a prelude; the mechanisms fit together magically, as expected. I gave generously and received graciously.

The following morning, I can recall leaning outwards onto the Place Odeon, au naturel but perhaps not visible, still receiving delicate but insistent attentions. I was adding to the collective sensations of the place, half-hidden but vibrant, shaking walls and windows, announcing to the world that Paris is love, more Eros than Agape.